


Their Airy Purposes

by orphan_account



Category: due South
Genre: Car Sex, First Time, M/M, My First Fanfic, POV First Person, all tied up, locked in the trunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 19:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Ray, you’ll have to bear with me, I don’t have a knife, and my hands are bound, too. But I think the criminals failed to remove one potential cutting tool from my person before depositing us in this trunk.”</p><p>“Greatness. What d’ya got?”</p><p>“My zipper.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Their Airy Purposes

**Author's Note:**

> Super-many thanks to Deputychairman and Seascribe for being my awesome betas (and cheerleaders) and to the entire dS Virtual Bar (on LJ+tumblr) for encouraging me to waste my time in the best way possible.

It’s been two months since our wild adventure in Lake Superior, and I’m still trying to figure out how to be partners with this crazy Mountie. Don’t get me wrong, I love Fraser. Symbolically, I guess. I don’t even know. Working undercover throws you for a loop, like you don’t even know who you are. It’s like, I’ve got all these feelings that I can’t even sort out, but pissed is the easiest to do, so it’s my default. But it sucks. Pissed is no fun at all, but it’s simple. I can do angry, no problem. After days of being angry because it’s easy, because everything that’s fucked up in this city makes me angry, because all these knucklehead perps make me angry, I just wanna, I dunno, _cuddle_ for once. But I’ve got to keep this tough-guy macho cop thing going, like I’m always undercover, even when I’m me, so I can’t admit I just need to be spooned until I fall asleep. I’m a tough-guy cop so if I want a side order of physical contact with my emotions, it’s gotta be violence. A side order of kick-em-in-the-head with my angry. A side order of punching with my frustration. 

God, I punched Fraser. Still makes me sick thinking about it. But what was I gonna do? He’s so frustrating. All the kinds of frustrating. Even some kinds of frustrating I never imagined could be possible.

It’s that kind of frustrating when he shows up at the station out of uniform, in those tight jeans and his leather jacket, for our stakeout tonight. “Try not to be conspicuous,” Welsh said. For me, that means I’ve left the Goat at home and we’re using some stupid motor pool car. For Frase, “not conspicuous” means ditch the red. But damn, he still stands out in a crowd in those jeans.

This is why I’m so messed up in the head. It’s like I’m undercover even to myself, like the real me can’t keep his hands off his partner, but I’ve got to play this role where the only acceptable way to get my hands on him is to punch him in the face …fuck. That sure messed things up for a while.

But we’re good now, we’re good, right? Except the last time I got a side order of physical contact with my intense emotions, the emotion was “oh shit I’m drowning” and the physical contact was Fraser kissing me or whatever it was. “Buddy breathing” he called it, like it was no big deal.  Kind of a big deal to me, since, y’know, I’m Not Dead Now, but it also totally blew my cover as “not a freak” to myself. Now there’s no avoiding the truth: I totally have the hots for my partner. Cover totally blown. All I can do is keep it under wraps to everyone else. So I’m frustrated. And frustration makes me angry, and now I’m back to my default emotion of “pissed.” Awesome.

And now I have to sit in a stupid ugly-ass blue-grey motor pool car at the back of some sketchy warehouse and try to ignore the fact that my partner is ridiculously hot and wearing those jeans and he kinda maybe kissed me once but I can’t touch him and ugh. _Ugh!_ Stupid stakeouts. Nothing’s gonna happen anyway.

……………………………….

So I was wrong. Apparently something _did_ happen on this stupid stakeout, because the last thing I remember is being ambushed by these guys in ninja getup – seriously, _Ninjas_? the weird shit that happens when Fraser is around – and now it’s dark and I’m pretty sure I’m tied up, or taped up? this feels like tape, and I think I’ve been unconscious for a while. Wherever I am, it’s cramped, and my front is cold but my back is warm. Really warm. Wait. Oh.

“Ray! You’re conscious!”

Ok, good, so that warm thing behind me is Fraser. I mean bad, he’s not coming to rescue me. Shit.

“Ray, we appear to be locked in the trunk of the car.”

Now that he points it out, it’s pretty obvious where we are. Fraser is behind me, sort of spooning me, but I assume his hands are taped behind his back, like mine. I think, but I can’t tell, that I’m the closest to the back of the car, facing the opening for the trunk. As if I could open it. There’s barely enough room to move and my hands are _taped behind my back_. Damn.

“Yeah no shit, Frase. Those ninja guys got us bad.”

“Ray, I highly doubt they were actual ninjas, considering their footwear was incongruous to the style and period of their other garb, since actually…”

“Fraser, shut up. We are going to die. We are locked in the trunk of the stupid ugly motor pool car and we’re who-the-hell-knows-where because they could have moved the car, which would have been the smart thing to do, since the 2-7 knows where we set up, but now we’re probably in the middle of nowhere and nobody is going to find us and we’re going to suffocate and this is really not how I wanted to die, not that I want to die at all, or have a list of preferred methods of death or anything, but we are _locked in the trunk_ and even if somehow there’s a way to get out of the trunk it doesn’t matter because our hands are taped together behind our backs and we can’t even reach the stupid latch or whatever and nobody is going to ever find us no matter how loud we shout and—“

“Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray. Ray.”

“What? God! What?”

“Ray, we have a limited oxygen supply in the trunk, and panicking is just going to deplete our resources faster than necessary.”

“Yeah but you’ve got those super lungs. It’s not gonna be a problem for you. And besides, you can just do that thing you did with your mouth on the Henry Allen.”

Fraser seemed to have something stuck in his throat. He coughed a little. “What?”

“Y’know, that thing, what did you call it? Buddy breathing. You could do that.”

“Oh. …oh.  Yes….Well…” Fraser sounds confused, or maybe embarrassed? Or maybe he’s worried about running out of air, which is getting _me_ worried, because if _Fraser_ ’s worried, then things really are bad.

“Ray, I hardly think we’re at that juncture. We still have at least 7 minutes of oxygen left. That is if I am not miscalculating the length of time we were unconscious. Of course, however, being unconscious, our breathing was shallow, and we would have been consuming our air supply at a much slower rate. Then again, our bodies are displacing a large proportion of the volume of the trunk—“

“Fraser.”

“…Which is, if I remember correctly from the owner’s manual in the glove compartment, assuming this is indeed the motor pool Crown Victoria we took to the stakeout—“

“Fraser!”

“…Precisely 20.6 cubic feet, which in liters would be—“

“ _Fraser_!  Shut up. You’re using up our air.”

“Right. Yes. My apologies, Ray.”

“We’re going to die here.”

“No, no, Ray, we are not going to die here. We just need to get out of the trunk.”

“Really? You don’t say! And how the hell are we supposed to do that?”

There’s an awkward pause, which I know by now means Fraser is going to tell me something I don’t want to hear. We probably _are_ going to die. Or he has some stupid plan that is just as likely to cause death as suffocating in a trunk.

“Ray, I think I have a plan. You have to trust me.”

“This sounds dangerous already, Frase, I dunno.”

“Ray, I think I know how to cut the tape off your wrists, but…”

“But what? Do it already!”

“Ray, you’ll have to bear with me, I don’t have a knife, and my hands are bound, too. But I think the criminals failed to remove one potential cutting tool from my person before depositing us in this trunk.”

“Greatness. What d’ya got?”

“My zipper.”

I could _not_ have heard that right _._ “ _What?”_

“Ray, the zipper of my jeans. The pull tab to the zipper on this pair is slightly broken. It should be sharp enough to cut through the tape. You’ll just have to get it pointed outward, then rub your wrists against it until the tape snags and tears. Then you’ll be able to free your hands and get to the trunk latch release.”

“Your _what!?”_

“Well, Ray, I had been meaning to take this pair of jeans to Mrs. Nikiforos, the tailor, to have the zipper replaced, but since I bought these at the thrift store, it didn’t seem economical to spend…“

“Hold up, you want me to _what_ , Fraser?”

“Ray, if you want to get out of the trunk, it seems the only way to free yourself is to use my zipper to cut the tape off your wrists.”

 _Free myself_ , indeed. God, he has no idea how frustrating he is. We’re fucking dying in a shitty motor pool Crown Vic, and he’s teasing me to death with his “rub my crotch and free yourself” plan. I don’t know what I’ll die of first, not enough air or too much Fraser.

I guess it is my last chance, though. Last chance to get out of here. Last chance to touch Fraser, if we are gonna die in here. I must be deranged. Dammit, here goes nothing.

“Ok, Frase. Um, brace yourself?” God, what are you even supposed to say when you’re about to awkwardly touch your partner’s crotch?

So I fiddle around back there. It’s weird to navigate with my hands around my back, so I just have to feel around until I find the zipper pull. Fraser’s got quite the package there, and he isn’t even hard. Not supposed to be noticing that, I know. Focus, Kowalski. Zipper pull. Right. Got it. And Fraser’s right, it is broken off, and sharp. This might even work.

I have to get the zipper partway down to get the zipper pull to stick out enough past the fabric of the fly for it to reach the tape. This is not how I imagined the first time unzipping his pants. Not that I’ve imagined unzipping his pants. ‘Course I haven’t.

God, who am I fooling anymore? My cover’s blown. I’ve wanted to do this for a while, and now I’m doing it, and it’s weirdly both hot and terrifying. And he doesn’t even know how hot it is.

I have to push pretty hard into Fraser for the zipper pull to snag the tape, but once it’s snagged it seems to be working. It’s slow going, though. Those stupid ninjas didn’t skimp on the tape.

“Unnngh.” Fraser makes a little moaning noise.

“Am I hurting you? Is this too hard?”

“No, Ray, it’s fine. Keep working.”

“Sorry, I have to push really hard to get it to tear. I don’t—“

“Ray, just continue.”

So I continue, and Fraser keeps making those little muffled hurting noises. I sort of feel bad about hurting him, until I start to feel what’s going on here. He’s getting hard. _Really_ hard. Those aren’t sounds of pain; he’s getting off on this!

“Fraser, you ok?”

“Ray, just, please, you’re almost there.”

I move up and down a couple more times, and I feel his cock twitch inside his jeans. That’s it. I _cannot_ handle this. I stop rubbing.

“Look, Frase, just tell me, you trying to cut me free or you trying to get me to rub you off, here?”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t a yes or no question, Frase.”

“Yes, Ray, I’m aware of that.”

“So?”

“Yes. Yes, Ray.”

He sounds kinda breathy when he says this, and I can’t tell if that’s because he’s emotional right now, or just running out of air, or maybe both?

“Yes to which?”

There’s a long pause. Well maybe it isn’t long, but it sure feels like forever. Man, I shouldn’t even be making him answer this. But I gotta know.

“Either? Well, both. Preferably of course you cutting yourself free, as it seems we’re dangerously short on air at this point. It would be prudent for you to resume working, and we can continue this discussion at another…”

“ _Fraser!_ Give me a straight answer already! I mean, well, wait, that’s not the best word for it, but, just _tell me_!”

“Ray, I hate to say this, but shut up. And hurry.”

I can’t tell if that growly voice of his is from lust or low oxygen, but I don’t care. It hits me like it’s pure sex. But he has a point. I don’t know how long it’s been, I don’t know how much air we have left, and I sure as hell do not want to die if Fraser just almost sort of admitted to wanting me to touch him. I would very much like to live a little longer and try that out.

So I keep rubbing, faster, pushing as hard as I can to get the zipper pull to catch on the tape. I think I’m down to the last layer of tape. Fraser feels like he’s down to his last, too. He’s breathing hard into the hair at the nape of my neck, biting back little grunting noises. I can feel how hard he is, straining at the half-open zipper. I can feel the head of his cock, under that starchy fabric of his shorts, pushing through the opening at the top of the zipper. I just want to give up on the tape and reach in there and let him out, but I realize that maybe escaping this trunk should be my priority, so I keep rubbing. _Damn_ , my hands want a part of this action, but the stupid ninjas taped my wrists, so wrists it has to be. One final hard push and the zipper pull catches all the way through the last layer of tape. I pull hard – and the tape tears. Fraser lets out a whimper. I don’t think he’s come, but he’s so damned close.

But I’m free. I pull my wrists apart, and I manage to roll around to face Fraser, and reach around his back to fumble at his tape – maybe I can just unwrap it by hand? I’m feeling for the edge of the tape when I realize just how close my face is to his at this angle, and I gasp.

“Ray? Are you alright?”

I don’t even know I’m saying it, but I just spit out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Air, Frase, I’m out of air.”

“Ray, I hardly think you’re suffocating, if you’re able to speak to me that clearly…”

“No, I need you to give me some of your air.” Now I know what I mean. And I only hope he knows what I mean. I mean, I sort of _do_ need some air. I’m breathless at this point, and not for being locked in this trunk.  I’m calling his bluff on that “buddy breathing” excuse.

“Ray?”

“Just, please?”

“Ah. Oh. … _Oh_.”

I still don’t know if he gets what I’m asking for. I can feel him moving his face toward mine, but it’s pitch black in here, and I realize he can’t see me either. I get one hand on his cheek and draw it towards me. I find his lips, and then I know that he understands what I’m asking for. As soon as our lips meet he’s moaning, pushing his tongue past my teeth. Now _his_ cover’s blown. This is no “buddy breathing,” because excitedly thrusting your tongue into your partner’s mouth is no way to transfer air, but that’s exactly what he’s doing. Like he’s starving, like he’s as desperate for contact as I am. And believe you me, I am desperate. Not just for any contact. For _him_. I never imagined our first kiss would be in the trunk of a car, but with Fraser I guess you just gotta expect the unexpected. But it’s great. Hot, and urgent, and his lips are so soft, and warmth of his mouth just melts me, and I’m losing it, I could die here and be happy…

Come to think of it, I _could_ die here. And I guess Fraser remembers that at the same time, because he breaks off the kiss with the same shock like when an alarm wakes you up.

“Ray! The trunk release! Or we really _will_ be needing air.”

So I bump and fumble and turn around, bashing Fraser with my elbow at one point, getting my ankles tangled up in his, knocking my knee on the trunk lid, but I get around to face the other way.

“Ray, feel along the edge until you find the seam where the trunk lid meets the body, then feel about a hand’s width down from there, you should find the trunk release latch.”

How Fraser knows where a trunk release latch is located is beyond me. Maybe the man’s been locked in some trunks before. I wonder if there’s anyone I should be jealous of from his previous adventures in car trunks. Hah. Maybe he just memorized the owner’s manual for the motor pool car. I wouldn’t be surprised. And maybe he did, because after fumbling around I find some kind of handle and pull it, and the trunk pops open, just an inch or two, just enough to let some fresh air in. But I am not about to climb out of it at this point. I roll back over to Fraser, pushing my right knee between his knees, reaching to find his face in the dim crack of light coming in now that the trunk is open.

 _“_ Ray, what are you…?”

“There’s something I need to finish.”

“Ah yes, the tape on my wrists, if you…”

But I don’t go for the tape. I unzip his jeans the rest of the way, unbutton the top, and reach in, pushing the elastic of his boxers down past his still-hard cock.

“Oh-- my. Well! Yes. That, too, Ray.” Fraser stutters. His whole body shudders when I take him in my hands, like he’s licked an electrical socket or something. I don’t move; maybe I’ve freaked him out.

“You ok with this?”

“Oh yes, very much so. It’s a point of honor to finish what you’ve started, Ray, as my.… unhhh!”

“Frase?”

“Please continue. The tape can wait.”

Grinning, I start to move my hands again. Fraser gasps.

“…but I think I might need you to give me some air.”

In the thin crack of light from the barely open trunk lid, I can see the most devious little smirk on Fraser’s face as he says that.

“‘Give me some air,’ oh come on. Your cover is _blown_ , buddy. I see through that one.”

“Do you now, Ray?” Fraser laughs.

“And your cover’s not the only thing that’s gonna be blown when I’m done with you.”

“Ray!”

And I finish what I started. 

**Author's Note:**

> **Title comes from _Paradise Lost_ , Book I:**   
>  _For Spirits, when they please,_   
>  _Can either sex assume, or both; so soft_   
>  _And uncompounded is their essence pure,_   
>  _Not tried or manacled with joint or limb,_   
>  _Nor founded on the brittle strength of bones,_   
>  _Like cumbrous flesh; but, in what shape they choose,_   
>  _Dilated or condensed, bright or obscure,_   
>  _Can execute their airy purposes,_   
>  _And works of love or enmity fulfil._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  **ALSO:** Hat tip to Awfullibrarybooks for posting the bizarre car-sex manual "Carma Sutra: The Auto-Erotic Handbook." Now I know the trunk capacity of a late 90s Crown Victoria, and that it’s one of the recommended car-trunks to have sex in (and that it has an emergency trunk release.) They have no idea what they have inspired.


End file.
